Channels
by indigentsalt
Summary: a series of one shots, stiles x derek, inspired by channel orange by frank ocean. t for language and suggested sexual themes.
1. Thinkin' Bout You

"'Night, Ang," says Stiles, taking a step down the porch. But Angela turns, this goofy grin on her face. She's wobbly in her wedge heels, and tops Stiles by a solid three inches from the next step up. Normally she's six inches shorter than him. Her hands land on his shoulders and he steps forward, steadying her.

"You're not going to come in?" she asks, looking puzzled now. Stiles smiles, shaking his head.

"Nah. I've got work in the morning," he explains. Angela pouts.

"But I finally got Twilight from Netflix, I've been waiting for like, months now." Stiles raises an eyebrow and she giggles in embarrassment. "What? Robert Pattinson is like, super bangin'," she informs him. "Don't you want to watch it with me?" Stiles looks into Angela's honey gold eyes, bright with hope but at the same time dulled with alcohol. He tries to think of a reason why he shouldn't (aside from never wanting to have to suffer through Twilight.) It's clear what Angie was doing, her inhibitions lowered from the party they'd attended together. Greg had asked him if they'd come as a couple. No, Stiles had said, just as friends. But maybe after spending the whole night flirting with other guys, she'd decided to make a move on him. And why not? Angie was pretty 'banging' herself, with long black hair, caramel skin, high cheekbones and perfectly arched eyebrows. The gap in her front teeth was endearing as opposed to unattractive, and her skin was flushed red with the evening. They hadn't known each other for too long, despite both being juniors at the University of Southern California. But they'd gotten to be pretty good friends while both working at one of the libraries over the summer.

"No thanks. I'm not really a vampire guy," Stiles says with a shrug and a smile. Startling Stiles, Angela's eyes sharpen and it's clear she sees Stiles' refusal in a completely sober light.

"So you're a werewolf fan then?" she asks, still playing things easily. Stiles blinks, startled in spite of himself.

"I guess you could say that," he answers. "'Night Angie," he repeats, and without waiting, turns and heads down the steps. There's a beat and then the door slams. He knows Angela will be angry with him for a couple of days. That's what he gets for associating with neurotic women.

Yeah, you can say he's a werewolf fan. Or was. Stiles rubs the back of his neck and glances up at the sky, striding down the narrow street, cars parked obstinately on either side. His hands are in his pockets, and clouds blanket the sky. Pockets of stars peek through, but there's no sign of the moon.

Stiles hasn't been back to Beacon Hills in two years, and he's okay with that. Sure the money is good, but why else is he going to volunteer to work the deserted USC libraries during summer session? Because he's avoiding home. There's not really anything for him there, anyway. Every Christmas since Stiles got his own place he's invited his dad to have Christmas with him, ostensibly to make sure his dad actually uses his two weeks of allotted vacation time. Sometimes Stiles wonders why his dad has never asked him why he hasn't come back to Beacon Hills. He's glad though, because he doesn't have a valid answer.

Stiles turns right at the bottom of the street, dodging a pair of chatty high school girls as they come towards him.

"He's just like... Ohmygod, he has this like, bad boy aura around him!" exclaims one.

"What, like leather jacket and devil-may-care attitude?" asks the other.

"Exactly!" replies the first. "No really, he actually drives this sexy little black two-door coup and he really does wear a leather jacket," she insists. The other one snorts as they turn the corner.

"What a cliché," he hears, before they fade off behind a house. Stiles shakes his head. Yeah, really. What a cliché.

Not that Derek ever really wore 'devil-may-care'. He didn't pretend to care, or pretend not to care. He didn't let anything show openly. Maybe that was why Stiles never went back. It was so hard being with a brick wall sometimes. Stiles wasn't even that emotive usually, but being with Derek just... Just sucked it all out of him. It was like he was using up all his reserves to paint a pretty picture on Derek.

Stiles' hands fist in his pockets as he thinks about it, which he tries not to too often. The distance has been good to him, usually. But on a night like this, and Stiles finally sees the full moon lighting up the sky as it makes its way to another patch of clouds, how can he not? He is a werewolf kind of guy. There's no denying it.

There wasn't any denying it, when Stiles was eighteen and stupid and lost and confused. What else are you when you're about to leave home for the first time in your life? And when the girl you've always loved and the girl who's never loved you ends all hope you could have ever had? Sometimes Stiles laughed when he thought about high school, all those years pining over Lydia Martin. He'd always thought that someday, _someday_ she'd see him. Jackson had broken up with her in sophomore year, and all of a sudden _someday_ was a whole lot closer. He'd thought maybe she'd end up bitten like Scott, drawn closer to him because they ran in the same circle. Like he'd been drawn closer to Derek Hale. But no luck there. The brilliant redhead had remained aloof until the very last. Until the look she'd given Stiles when he suggested a goodbye kiss at the tail end of her going away party when she left for a summer program at Harvard. Stiles' cheeks flamed uncomfortably at the thought. Usually she had never paid him enough attention to make him feel completely rejected, but it had seemed she'd wanted to make things explicitly clear before she left for the east coast. And Stiles had felt clearly, explicitly rejected.

Stiles' foot taps impatiently as he arrives at a red light. After a moment, he sees no cars are coming and hurries across the street. He can't be standing still. He's gotta keep moving. It's hard to say what happened after that late June day. Stiles tried to be optimistic, that girls at college would be more receptive. Scott encouraged this. Said things like, 'Everyone knows SoCal girls aren't as frigid' and 'It's definitely better this way, dude'. Which was well enough for him, when he was with Allison. Maybe it isn't so hard to say what happened after: Stiles spent the summer before he left for college third wheeling with Scott and Allison. Looking back, Stiles has to admire Allison's patience with him.

Stiles crosses another street and sees his home, a five-story split house. He is lucky enough to have the fifth floor (sarcasm), though he doesn't mind sharing it with Roger, who also goes to USC. Roger's a good guy. It was actually sort of funny, Stiles and Allison managed some bonding. During certain nights. Nights like these, when Scott was... Busy. Busy with Derek, Isaac, Erica and Boyd.

"_So you're totally over Lydia?" Allison asked._

"_Duh," snorts Stiles into the bottle of whiskey they took from the Sheriff's cabinet. "She never liked me anyway. Not gonna piss away my summer mourning her when there are all these other-" Stiles hiccoughed "-babes for me to be hittin' it up with." It came out slurred, and Allison didn't say anything, bless her._

"_Do you ever want to be like them?" Allison asked suddenly._

"_What is this, an interview?" Stiles retorted, immediately troubled by the question. It would be better phrased as 'Do you ever not regret refusing the bite?'_

"_Come on Stiles," Allison said, no amusement in her voice._

"_Do you?" he asked. He didn't look at her face, knowing there would be a bitter expression though. It was almost a mean question to ask, after what happened to Mrs. Argent, but Allison asked for it- literally._

"_I just want... I want it to be easier to be with Scott," she answered finally. It was always down to Scott with her. And always down to Allison with Scott. Stiles wondered what it would be like to be in love like that._

"_Well fortunately, I don't have to be a creepy shapeshifter to be with the one I love," Stiles said optimistically, and made sure that was the end of that._

It's funny, Stiles thinks as he takes out his key and unlocks the door. Another couple months and he never would have said that. Christmas does that to people, you know?

_Stiles glanced out the window, seeing the slightly-less-than-full moon. He knew enough to be happy for certain others that Christmas Eve didn't fall on the real full moon. Scott and Ms. McCall were spending it with the Argents and Scott had to be on his best behavior. Stiles was spending it, as usual, with his father. Stilinski Christmases were a quiet affair, but they were never unpleasant. Stiles like Christmas as much as any kid. They usually got a catered dinner, and it usually turned into an eating competition, Sheriff Stilinski apparently under the impression that Christmas was really a calendar date for allowing grown men to act like their teenage sons._

_When they had demolished all but a few lumps of breast meat from the whole roasted turkey they'd ordered (they were both dark meat guys anyway), Stiles and his dad moved to the living room to watch old Sherlock Holmes movies (the Jeremy Brett ones, though Stiles did manage to get his dad to watch Sherlock on New Years Day.) It was a Stilinski tradition. The Sheriff had even given Stiles a glass of scotch on the rocks to celebrate, and they'd opened the presents they'd gotten each other and Sheriff Stilinski had fallen asleep during 'The Sign of Four'. Not even the loud howling noise towards the end of the film had woken him, but it made Stiles get out from under his fuzzy flannel blanket and brave the crisp Beacon Hills air to step out onto the porch. When he heard nothing, he shoved his feet properly into his sneakers and trotted out across crackling leaves into the trees._

"_Derek!" he shouted._

_The alpha could have been anywhere, but Stiles knew Derek would hear him. He was the only nutjob yelling in the middle of the woods on Christmas Eve, wasn't he?_

"_Derek!"_

_Stiles waited a long time, and eventually he convinced himself that he'd been mistaken. Though he was pretty sure there were still no wild wolves in California. Shrugging, he returned to the house, glancing from this snoring dad to the scrolling credits. He turned the TV off, made sure his dad was tucked in, and went upstairs to his room._

"_Ah!" he yelped when he turned on the light, stumbling back and throwing his arms up. But Derek was sitting motionlessly in his desk chair. He was wearing a light t-shirt and jeans, and had left the window open. Stiles scowled. "You could at least close the window after you come in," he muttered. "And wipe your feet," he added, seeing the muddy tracks on his floor._

"_You called me, didn't you?" Derek retorted. Stiles passed him and shut the window, then glanced at the grumpy looking werewolf._

"_You called first," Stiles pointed out. Derek didn't say anything. "Come on, you hungry? There's some turkey and potatoes left, and some cherry pie if you like cherry pie," he offered. Derek didn't say anything, but he stood and followed Stiles from the room._

Stiles picks his way past the three bikes locked in the entryway. The occupants of the house don't trust each other, clearly, and Stiles has to admit that he's one of them. His old mountain bike is locked towards the back, to the rungs of the stairs, rarely used. He trudges up the stairs, his hand along the creaky banister. The potheads on floor two clearly have friends over, he can hear laughing and smell marijuana. Claire in apartment three clearly has the apartment to herself (her roommate Monica goes home to Los Angeles a lot of weekends) because Stiles can hear her and her girlfriend Danielle having sex, something Stiles has gotten used to. It doesn't weird him out anymore, or make him jealous. Usually.

He uses his other key to get into apartment five, opens his eyes wider in an effort to see past all the junk on his and Roger's living room floor. He escapes Roger's Xbox and a couple of jackets, but kicks one of Roger's two hundred dollar sneakers across the room and almost trips on a plate. Roger is fast asleep with his light on and his door open, and Stiles shuts off the light to save on electricity and slips into his room, closing the door.

_The pair of them padded silently down the stairs, and when Derek was in the kitchen, Stiles shut the door behind them. He handed Derek a plate._

"_How lonely is a Derek Hale Christmas, anyway?" Stiles asked as Derek approached the turkey. He frowned._

"_White meat?" he said in lieu of an answer, and Stiles couldn't help but smile._

"_You snooze, you lose," he answered. When Derek glared at him, he shrugged. "Why didn't you say you needed a place to spend Christmas?" he asked, matter-of-fact. Derek scowled._

"_I didn't need anything. Christmas is just a day like any other," he retorted sullenly, using the two-pronged fork to spear all of the remaining turkey and dump it on his plate. Stiles didn't know what to say. For once, his sense of self-preservation was kicking in, not letting him say anything stupid. Or maybe he was preserving Derek- here, in his house, slightly less surly than usual._

"_Do you want mashed potatoes?" Stiles asked. Derek thrust out his plate in response. Stiles took it, piling on creamy lumps of white mush, pre-slathered with butter and cooked with onions. "Wanna put it in the microwave?"_

_Derek answered by taking a huge bite of turkey, using his hands. Stiles wordlessly handed him a fork._

"_What did you do last Christmas?" Stiles wanted to know._

"_Can you not ask so many questions?" Derek said, suddenly angry. Stiles flinched._

"_That was a question," he pointed out, unable to help himself. Derek took a deep breath, eyes closed, and all of a sudden Stiles realized that he he was alone in his kitchen with an alpha werewolf, no Scott in sight, and clearly making him angry. Did he really have that much of a death wish? He didn't realize his heart was pounding until Derek said softly,_

"_You're afraid." Stiles didn't know what to say. He felt embarrassed, both because fear did not make him a good host and because, well, he didn't want Derek to know that he really was scared of him. "Don't be afraid, Stiles," said Derek, and he sounded weary._

"_Would it mean that much to you?" Stiles asked. Derek met his eyes, suddenly, and Stiles flinched under their gaze._

"_It would mean a lot," he answered quietly, and went back to his turkey. Stiles watched him eat, then sat on the stool beside him and watched the floor. He watched the plate from the periphery of his vision gradually empty._

"_Here's some cherry pie, since you don't want me to ask you whether you want some," Stiles declared when Derek had finished, and he took Derek's plate, served him a slice and handed it back to him. "And it's pretty obvious you want ice cream, so I won't ask." He took the ice cream from the freezer, face burning for some reason, and wrestled some vanilla out of the tub and onto Derek's plate. When he could bare it no longer, he looked at Derek's chin, not meeting his eyes. He could see the stubbled cheeks pulling and, eyes widening, looked up at the werewolf, who was smiling down at his pie, not meeting Stiles' eyes either._

_Stiles put away the ice cream and sat down again beside Derek, who finished his pie and ice cream in record time (and the records were pretty good in the Stilinski house._

"_Merry Christmas," said Stiles, watching over his shoulder as Derek put his dish in the sink, washed it and his fork thoroughly, and put them both in the drying rack._

"_Thanks for dinner, Stiles," said Derek, sounding genuine. Stiles looked up at the Alpha, who was looking at him expectantly._

"_What?" he asked. Derek lifted his eyes and chin in the direction of the second floor, and Stiles, baffled and off-guard, immediately assumed the wrong thing. "Wha?" he repeated. Derek's eyes narrowed._

"_I'm not going out the front door with your dad asleep on the couch," the werewolf said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Stiles blinked, then let out a quiet 'oh'. He made sure the turkey and potatoes were sealed up, turned off the light, and led Derek up the stairs and into his room. Derek made for the window and opened it, then turned to Stiles, who shivered in the breeze that immediately entered._

"_You're going to catch a cold," Stiles pointed out. Derek grinned. Then the older man held out a hand. Stiles blinked at the outstretched palm, then at Derek's face. "What, you want me to pay you for the pleasure of your company?" he asked dubiously. Derek rolled his eyes, more than a hint of annoyance crossing his face._

"_No, you idiot," he said, and reached forward. He skipped past Stiles' hand and gripped his forearm comfortingly. After a beat, Stiles did the same, noting how even though Derek's fingers were almost touching, Stiles could barely get his fingers around the broad, flat plane of wrist. Then he glanced up at Derek, who was looking at him oddly. "When do you go back to school?" he wanted to know._

"_The third," Stiles answered. Derek nodded, then let go of Stiles' arm. Again, Stiles was a beat late before he released Derek. Without another word, the werewolf slipped out of Stiles' window._

Stiles enters his room, looking at the clothes, books, pens, shoes and knick-knacks strewn everywhere, like a tornado had blown through his room. He turns on a light, seeing his computer open and charging on his desk, the picture of him and Scott that Ms. McCall gave him when they graduated next to the picture of him and his parents when he was six, the lacrosse stick lying unused in the corner, the coat rack with only one of eight hooks used.

He collapses in bed, staring up at his white ceiling. Then he forces himself to get up, pull off the denim button down he was wearing, his sneakers, socks and shorts, leaving him in a t-shirt and boxers. Glancing around the room in frustration, he turns off the light and falls back again. If he listens closely, he can hear Claire (or Daniele, he's not sure) moaning in pleasure. If he doesn't think about it, he can be jealous. Really jealous. It's only been a couple months since Stiles has kissed anyone, but it's been a long time since he's had a kiss that meant something. His eyes closing, Stiles feels a strong chin against his own jaw, the unmistakable rub of five o' clock shadow, a wide hand on his chest, fingers splayed.

"_What- Derek-" Stiles spluttered, shoving back against the cement wall of Derek's chest and staring at the werewolf in shock. He couldn't help it and spat slightly, trying to rid this unfamiliar taste from his lips. It wasn't bad, just unknown. His shock only deepened when he saw the hurt in Derek's face. That wasn't supposed to happen, but it quickly smoothed out, the lines in his face turning angular and angry again. "No I mean I'm flattered, really, I'm just not ga-"_

"_Forget it," Derek muttered, and turned away from Stiles._

Oh he remembers it. How can he forget how Derek feels? Derek was his first kiss. He can feel Derek anytime he feels like drudging up the pain to do so. He can do it anytime he wants, though the sadness is sort of a turn off. He can feel Derek then, those strong, surprisingly short fingers working their way over his stomach, curling in the hair under his belly button, tracing the bottom of his rib cage, smoothing his sternum with such affectionate determination like he believes he can reduce the bones to dust. Stiles' toes curl and he grips the sheets. It was a routine they had.

"_I've been thinking about you," Stiles blurted out. Derek didn't turn around though, and Stiles' heart dropped a little into his stomach. "Don't you think about me?" he wanted to know._

"_What's it to you?" Derek retorted waspishly._

"_What's it to me? It's you. It's fucking you and me," Stiles answered, stalking towards the werewolf and intending to turn him around forcefully (though how a scrawny little human like Stiles would achieve that, he didn't know), but Derek turned towards him. "Why did you k- Why did you do what you did?" Stiles demanded._

"_It's complicated," sighed Derek. Immediately, Stiles opened his mouth to protest- he had always loathed that answer. But something in the way Derek actually looked at him made him lose the will to say it._

_God, maybe it was complicated._

"_If I give you the time, can you explain it to me?" Stiles asked. Derek's eyes went from narrowed to open in confusion._

"_I thought you weren't gay," Derek challenged him._

"_Are you?" Stiles asked, because there's something about that 'it's complicated' that Stiles understood. Because maybe it was a little complicated for him too. Derek didn't say anything, but a small smirk slowly curled the corner of his lip._

He still thinks about Derek. He still thinks about whether Derek thinks about him. Maybe it's his fault that all he can do is think about him. But things got...

Complicated.


	2. Sierra Leone

**AN:** future, semi AU. more stiles x lydia, but derek involved.

"Thomas, where are you? Thomas! Thomas!" Stiles' brow furrowed, his steps quickening towards the sliding glass door he left open a few minutes ago to answer the phone. But a shriek stopped him in his tracks, his worst fear realized. Turning on his heel, Stiles bolted out of the kitchen and dashed up the stairs. His heart pounded, but refused to slow as he gradually realized that he was hearing cries of laughter. He crept to the door of the nursery, a small room carpeted in cream with candy orange and lavender stripes on the wall. There was Thomas, standing on Lydia's nursing chair, which he'd pulled to the side of the crib, his head and his ginger curls hanging over his baby sister. Stiles felt his chest twist with painful pride, watching as Maggie reached up with tiny fists to grip at her brother.

"Thomas, what are you doing?" Stiles asked, and Thomas jerked back guiltily from the crib, eliciting another cry from his little sister. The little boy couldn't meet his father's eyes.

"I just wanted to..." he began, but didn't finish. Stiles sighed, and little Maggie yelped again, little fingers squeezing in Thomas' direction. Thomas turned wistfully back towards his sister, and their father crossed the room, scooping Maggie up from her crib and bouncing her gently in his arms. Just like Thomas at that age, she quickly calmed, nuzzling Stiles' collarbone.

"You know who was on the phone?" Stiles asked his son. Thomas shook his head, staring widely back at him. Stiles picked up Thomas in his other arm, struggling for a moment before he sat and placed Thomas on his knee. Immediately, Thomas inched into his father until his head was pressed against Stiles' chest. "It was Miss Hannah," Stiles said. Thomas didn't answer. "She said you were smelling people again today," Stiles went on gently, stroking his son's soft back.

Stiles couldn't get enough of his kids. He felt warmer, more complete when they were with him. He had had a very hard time letting go when Thomas had grown out of his arms, wanting to run free instead of cuddle with his father. Having this chance to hold Thomas was a relief for him, even though he had all the opportunities he wanted with Maggie, only eleven months old. Both of them at once was a luxury. He could hear Maggie sucking her thumb under his ear.

"Sarah doesn't like it," Thomas admitted to his father, and Stiles nodded slightly.

"Maybe don't smell Sarah," Stiles consoled his son. They had tried getting Thomas to stop smelling. They had tried everything. Rewards, punishments, good examples, chili flakes to make his eyes water, but he and Lydia had not been able to cure their son of his habit. Smelling was harmless, sure, but it made people very uncomfortable. Especially from such a little boy. "You can smell us," he offered. "Me and Mommy and Maggie and Pop and Nana and Grandpa," he went on. "You can smell your family."

"That's what I was doing!" Thomas insisted, finally meeting his father's eyes. "I wanted to smell Maggie. Make sure she was family," he explained, as if that were the most natural thing in the world. Stiles frowned.

"What does family smell like?" Stiles asked, trying to prompt his son into a real explanation for this. Thomas just looked at him.

"Family," was all he said, sounding confused. "Family smells like family." Stiles was about to ask him something else when Thomas perked up. "MOMMY'S HOME!" he declared at a yell, and leapt from his father's lap. Baffled, Stiles hurried to his feet, still cradling Maggie. Sure enough, he heard Lydia's car pulling into the driveway. The kid had good hearing. They followed Thomas down the stairs. He smiled, seeing Lydia cooing to their progeny from the doorway. They had the same thick red hair, grey-green eyes, little ears and wide cheekbones.

"Hi Puppy," she sang, scooping up Thomas and eskimo-kissing him, making him giggle and throw his arms around his mother.

"Hey honey," Stiles said when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Carefully holding their children, they exchanged a kiss on the cheek and one on the lips. "How was class?" he asked. Lydia let out a loud sigh, placed Thomas on the floor and held out her arm.

"I wish the college didn't require the kids to take a math class. I don't want kids in advanced calculus unless they can _do_ advanced calculus," she replied as Stiles carefully placed Maggie in her hold. Immediately, the infant began to squirm, sensing her mother and remembering it had been a while since she'd eaten.

"Sit," Stiles encouraged her. Lydia had her face pressed against Maggie's, breathing in deeply the essence of her daughter. Stiles watched, affection blooming inside him, as Maggie appeared to do the same thing.

"I want mommy to carry me!" Thomas announced, tugging on the skirt of Lydia's black shift dress.

"Mommy has to feed Maggie," Stiles told his son as Maggie began to fuss, chubby pink fingers picking at the low neck of her dress. Lydia stepped past her husband of six years, grabbing the ratty towel from the windowsill where Stiles had left it after Maggie's noon feeding, and sat down in a plush leather chair in the living room. She kicked off her nude patent leather high heels and then began removing the straps of her dress. Stiles meanwhile shut the front door and picked up Lydia's handbag from the floor, taking it to the kitchen.

"Hungry, kiddo?" he asked Thomas, who had followed him somewhat forlornly. Thomas nodded and Stiles reached into the fridge, grabbing an apple. He took out a cutting board and a knife and began cutting the apple into bite-sized five-year-old pieces, handing them to his son.

"The door is open, Stiles," hummed Lydia from the living room. He glanced at the sliding door, which he still hadn't closed.

"The phone rang, and I forgot to close it," he explained, leaning on the doorway to the living room, his eyes on Lydia and Maggie. Lydia never, _ever_ breastfed in public, and at first, she had always covered herself with a blanket when she was feeding Thomas. To Stiles' delight, eventually she had stopped. Stiles loved watching her, loved that she could share something so personal with their child. That Lydia was the mother of his children, well, he loved watching her with their kids. Lydia had this blissed out look on her face, which she only ever had with Thomas and Maggie. She still reserved her more severe expressions for Stiles and her students at Stanford. So getting to see her like this was also a treat. "It was Miss Hannah," Stiles added. Lydia's eyes opened and she looked at him, giving him her full attention, even as she stroked Maggie's slightly brunette head.

"What'd she say?" she asked, sounding worried.

"Thomas was smelling the other kids again," he admitted. Lydia sighed.

"Maybe I should never have started calling him Puppy," she murmured. Puppy was her pet name for Thomas, given for the way he'd always snuffled during feeding. Stiles smiled wryly. "Do you think he'll outgrow it?" Lydia asked, suddenly nervous. "Should we take him to counseling?" Stiles shrugged.

"I don't think so. I think he just... Hasn't learned his boundaries yet," he offered. Lydia shifted and Maggie let out a dissatisfied grunt at being joggled.

"Well he got my brains and my hair, I guess he got your social skills," she answered, and Stiles laughed.

"Are you sure he's not the mailman's? He's always been pretty awkward," he pointed out, and Lydia glared at him.

"Hush," she reprimanded him, moving Maggie to her other breast. Stiles appraised his wife for a moment, beautiful in her post-work feeding dishevelment. Some locks of hair were stuck to her neck with sweat from the early September heat, and some of her makeup had gotten wiped off, revealing scores of freckles across her nose. Lydia had eyes only for her daughter though.

"He says we smell like family," he said conversationally, and Lydia glanced up at him.

"What does family smell like?" she wondered, and Stiles laughed.

"That's what I asked," he replied. Lydia shook her head.

"Maybe he's part wolf," the woman suggested with a sigh, eyes still on her daughter. "Smelling for friends and foes and pack. Maybe that's why he sniffs all the others at school." Stiles blinked, then stared at Lydia for a moment. She met his eyes. "What?" she asked sharply.

"Maybe he is," Stiles muttered. Now _there_ was a thought.

Stiles had to wait until Lydia had settled in the nursery with Maggie for her last feeding of the night before he could make the phone call he wanted to. And he had to take care of Thomas.

"Say goodnight to mommy," Stiles instructed his son as they passed the open door to the nursery. Lydia smiled over her bare shoulder at Stiles and a freshly bathed and dressed Thomas.

"'Night mommy!" Thomas crowed, squirming in Stiles' arms. "Wanna hug," he informed his father.

"You can kiss mommy on the cheek," he told him, and stepped into the nursery, holding Thomas at arms length over Lydia's shoulder.

"Night night, Puppy," Lydia hummed, turning her face so that Thomas could plant a sloppy smooch on her cheek.

"Love you," the little boy announced, and nuzzled his mother. Stiles pulled Thomas back into his arms and took him to his room, where he tucked him into bed and knelt down beside him.

"I want you to remember about what Miss Hannah said," Stiles murmured, reaching out to stroke wet curls from Thomas' forehead. Thomas looked away. "It's okay with me, and your mother, and your sister. But smelling is not something we do with any others, okay?" Just as Stiles feared, Thomas sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes filling with tears.

"But I had to see if she was... Was..." Unable to find the words, Thomas began crying, and Stiles immediately removed the boy from his blankets and cradled him to his chest, shushing him and rocking him gently.

"Hey, it's okay," Stiles soothed, stroking Thomas' back, pressing his face into his son's thick hair. He stood, walking the boy back and forth. "I know. You just wanted to check. But you have to check by asking, by playing," he went on, unsure what to say. He was starting to get an idea of what Thomas was trying to do, and it was making him more nervous by the second.

"Come on," he added as Thomas sniffed and leaked snot and spit all over his shirtfront. He slipped out of the darkened room and into his office, shutting the door behind him. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Lydia until he was sure of his suspicions. She didn't like this kind of stuff getting brought up. He hummed in Thomas' ear as he picked up his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. There was an ancient entry for Derek Hale, and he hit it and put the phone to his ear. Almost instantly, he got the voice of that mysterious woman-

"I'm sorry, this number has been dis-"

Stiles ended the call, stared at his phone screen for a moment while worrying his lip between his teeth, and then hit speed dial 4.

"Hello?"

"Hey Dad, it's Stiles."

"Hey, son!" said Sheriff- former Sheriff- Stilinski happily. Stiles couldn't help but smile. His dad was always happy to hear from him, much more so than when Stiles had been a teenager. These days, unlike in high school, a phone call from him usually didn't have to do with anything illegal. "What's going on? How're the kids?" Sheriff Stilinski was, predictably, a doting grandfather. He'd been gently nudged off the force after his heart attack, but nobody had even considered letting him go from the Beacon Hills County law enforcement department. He now ran the police academy just outside Beacon Hills, which served the neighboring towns. And everyone still called him Sheriff.

"They're great. Lydia's putting Maggie to bed now, and Thomas is with me," he answered, still staring out the window as Thomas drifted to sleep in his arms. The moon was half full now. Stiles had never gotten out of the habit of checking its phases. "We've set Maggie's birthday party for the 4th, so you can come play Grandpa then," he told his father.

"That's a Saturday, right? Do you need anything for her?" he asked, and Stiles grinned, picturing his father's eagerness.

"I'll talk to Lydia. But her folks are gonna be there, and she says her mom's bringing a boyfriend," he mentioned casually.

"Huh," said the sheriff. "Anna dating, at her age?" he said thoughtfully.

"It's not unheard of Dad, you know. There are all these websites, like , have you heard-"

"Come on, Stiles," the sheriff scoffed. "Me, dating? I'm an old fart now, who'd want to date me?"

"Look, I'm just saying, if you want to bring a friend, you're welcome to." Stiles assured his father. Sheriff Stilinski hmphed. "Anyway, I need a favor," he went on.

"Sure, what is it?" he asked. Again, he was a lot happier to help Stiles out now that he was sure he wasn't involved in murders.

"I need a phone number." Stiles said.

"Let me pull up the database," said the Sheriff, and Stiles could hear typing in the background. He knew his dad had access to all the Beacon County information from his position at the police academy. "What's the last name?" he asked. Stiles took a deep breath.

"Hale," he said. There was a pause.

"Hale," repeated his father, as if he was unsure.

"Hale. Derek Hale." Sheriff Stilinski took a deep breath.

"Now I know you're a grown man, Stiles, but just what exactly do you want with Derek Hale?" he asked.

"Uh," said Stiles. Clearly he should have thought of something beforehand. "You know. Just wanna, er, catch up. Bring back all those fond high school memories," he tried. Sheriff Stilinski sighed, and Stiles felt like he was sixteen again.

"You could just tell me to mind my own business," he grumbled. "The number is..."

When his father hung up, Stiles put his phone down and took Thomas to his bedroom, tucking the sleeping boy back into his blankets and turning on his night light. He slipped out, leaving the door open, and went to the nursery, where Lydia was watching over a slightly squirmy, almost-sleeping Maggie. He moved beside her, putting an arm around her waist. He gently pushed the mobile of carved wooden birds that hung above the bed, bells chiming as it moved. The baby was too tired to giggle, but let out a muffled sort of noise as her eyes shut, and Stiles smiled.

"I think I'll start weaning her next week," Lydia said thoughtfully. She shook her head. "I'm so sick of the freshmen staring at my tits all class." Stiles let out a laugh and led his wife from the room, checking that the baby monitor was on.

"I talked to my dad," he said conversationally as they entered their bedroom.

"What'd he say?" Lydia asked, going to her dresser and pulling off the tank top she'd put on after work. Changing out of his own plaid, button-down shirt, Stiles admired her curved back and the smattering of freckles around her spine.

"He's excited about the party, he said he'll come," he answered. "Wanted to know if we needed anything for Maggie," he added.

"Ummm," she hummed tunelessly, shimmying out of a pair of loose jeans. "Well I was thinking of getting Puppy a little table he could sit at to draw or do crafts," she said thoughtfully, changing her underwear and slipping on a pair of Stiles' boxers to sleep in. He was always finding his clothes in her laundry. Braless, she pulled on a white t-shirt that could have been his or hers.

"I'll let him know," Stiles answered as he pulled off his socks and trousers.

"Can I have a back rub?" Lydia asked him, glancing at him over her shoulder with that famous pout of hers. He definitely felt like he was sixteen again.

"Of course," he answered, and she sat on the bed with her back to him. He climbed over to her, starting at her neck as she began to tell him about a meeting she'd had with the dean of the college where she worked. A lot of Stiles' peers said that Lydia had him totally whipped. It was completely true, but Stiles didn't mind. Lydia worked at Stanford, teaching undergraduates and graduates in mathematics, but the real money she made doing tutoring for rich kids. Stiles stayed at home, minding Maggie and Thomas and copy-editing for an LA based publishing house. Stiles quite liked his life. He had made friends with the mothers in the neighborhood, which of course alienated him from their husbands, but he liked Lydia's professor friends. They were too caught up in their theoretical problems to care what he did for a living.

"Are you asleep?" Stiles asked twenty minutes later. Lydia's conversation had petered out, and she was lying on her stomach with her face tucked into her arms. Stiles was seated on her butt, massaging her lower back.

"No," she mumbled, and Stiles smiled. He pulled her shirt down and fell off of her so he was lying beside her on the bed. He slung an arm around her and pulled himself against her. "Stiles," she sighed in exasperation.

"What?" he asked. "I didn't even do anything! I'm innocent!" he declared. This elicited a giggle from her, something it would not have done ten years earlier. "Can't a man cuddle his own wife?" Lydia turned towards him so they were both on their sides, facing each other. Since she couldn't admit she was wrong, she simply leaned over and kissed him, her cool palm on his cheek. He thought she would pull away, but as the seconds ticked by and Stiles lost track of them, he found himself chest to chest with Lydia, her mouth hungry. His hand slipped under her shirt and he stroked the skin of her stomach, knowing her breasts would be sensitive just then. When she didn't push him away, his hand moved down, stretching the waistband of his boxers and the elastic of her knickers. She gasped when he touched her.

"Oh Stiles," she sighed, her eyes closing, and her own hand reached forward, under his boxers, gripping him expertly. He choked a little, his eyes shutting too. They were acting like teenagers. Which wasn't always so bad. "I want you," she whispered, using her hand to nudge him into position above her. Steeling himself, Stiles kissed her thoroughly as she took care of their respective undergarments.

_Damn_, Stiles thought as her legs circled his hips. He'd wanted to call Derek.

"Lydia! Lydia wait!" Stiles called out the open front door, still hurrying down the steps. Maggie giggled and clapped in his arms as she bounced in his hold. He ran into the screen door, backed up and hit the handle, and hurried outside. "Lydia!" he shouted. Thankfully, he caught her attention as she was about to pull down the street in the two door cherry red coupe she'd treated herself to when she won her Fields Medal. She rolled down the window and he hurried across the grass, still in a t-shirt and boxers and no shoes or socks. "Here," he said, handing her the stack of papers she'd graded the afternoon before and left in her office.

"Oh god," she sighed, taking them and slipping them into her bag. "Thanks hon." she said with a smile, and Stiles smiled too, waving Maggie's little hand at her mother.

"Say bye mommy," he said to his daughter, who babbled and drooled a little bit. Lydia smiled.

"Stiles, I want you to start looking up therapists for Puppy," she said, and Stiles blinked, surprised.

"Sure," he said, though he had something else in mind. He would have argued, since they didn't exactly have the money to pay for counseling, nor did he trust that sort of stuff, but this way she wouldn't ask for a while. That would give him enough time to talk to Derek. "Will do. You're coming home at five today?" he asked. Lydia shook her head.

"Kyle's mom cancelled. I'll be home at three thirty." she replied.

"Excellent. I'll see you then." Lydia blew him a kiss and drove off. Stiles, unembarrassed by his state of undress, waved to Mrs. Across-the-Street, who was jogging in from her morning run with her twins in their stroller. She waved back, and Stiles returned to his house, shutting the door behind him. He put Maggie in her playpen, dressed himself, dressed his son, and bundled them both into the Chevy sedan that served as the family car. When he had dropped Thomas off at kindergarten with Miss Hannah and a reminder that smelling was just for family, gotten the groceries, and returned home, he put Maggie down for her nap and sat down at his desk. He wanted to call Derek right away, but he had to get some work done first.

It wasn't until he had fed Maggie her lunch, read through two chapters of a tragically bad science fiction novel and edited out more excessive commas than he could count, watered and weeded his garden and made his own lunch that Stiles had a chance to call the number his father had given him.

Although he occasionally thought of Derek Hale, he had never really considered what the other man would be doing. Did he have a job? He knew he was still in Beacon Hills, since he'd been in his father's database, but was he still inhabiting the dilapidated Hale House? The phone rang twice before a deep voice answered.

"Derek Hale," it said officially.

"Derek." he repeated stupidly.

"Yes?" Said Derek after a moment, and Stiles realized he hadn't said anything yet.

"Derek, hi, sorry, it's uh, it's Stiles. Stiles Stilinski," he managed. There was a long pause.

"Stilinski," said Derek, almost thoughtfully. "Long time." And that was it.

"Yeah, it has been." It occurred to Stiles that he had no idea how to break this subject with Derek. Or with anyone. Though with a guy who had about as much emotion as a rock, it was a little harder.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, and Stiles remarked that Derek had become almost _pleasant_ in the years since they'd seen each other. How weird.

"Well I... I don't really know how to go about this, and I don't know if I'm asking the right person, I mean it's all just a hunch of mine and I'm probably just jumping to conclusions-"

"Out with it, Stilinski," grumbled Derek, and the growl, for some reason, put Stiles much more at ease than the conversational tone had.

"My son has a smelling problem." he said. Derek took this in.

"A smelling problem." he repeated.

"He keeps smelling the kids at kindergarten. He smells me and his mother. When I caught him sniffing his sister yesterday, he said he just wanted to check that she was family," Stiles rambled.

"What do you think I am, a child psychiatrist?" Derek asked grumpily.

"No Derek, but you're a werewolf," Stiles answered. That got his attention.

"And? You think your son's been bitten? You'd probably know," Derek said, sounding annoyed. Stiles suddenly understood the gap in their comprehension. It wasn't like Derek had been to the wedding.

"Lydia is his mother," Stiles said. This made Derek pause.

"But Lydia isn't a werewolf," Derek reminded him. "Lydia is immune."

"Yes but..." Stiles scratched his head, playing with a pen. "Think about it. You're a werewolf because your parents were, so lycanthropy is passed down. If lycanthropy is a trait, and immunity is a trait, maybe lycanthropy is dominant, and immunity is..."

"Recessive," Derek supplied.

"Yes," Stiles said.

"I've never..." Derek muttered something under his breath. "Do you know what it means, if he's a werewolf?" Derek asked him.

"It means no dating on the full moon," he said thoughtfully. Derek groaned.

"No dumbass, it means he's mine." Derek retorted. Stiles frowned.

"I don't think being a werewolf is a proper argument for custody," he replied.

"It means he's my _pack_. Peter's pack was passed to me and if Lydia hadn't been immune, she would have belonged to my pack as well. So any child of hers is part of my pack too," Derek explained. Stiles didn't like how he phrased it- the kid could only have one father and one mother, after all. But an urgency had filled Derek's voice that surprised Stiles. "I have to meet him, Stiles." he said. "I can tell you if he's a werewolf or not, but I need to meet him," Stiles chewed his lip. This had always been the obvious end to his speculations. If Thomas really _was_ a werewolf, well, there were things Lydia and Stiles wouldn't be able to teach him.

"Listen, Lydia's got a conference at the University of Washington on Saturday, so she'll be away for the weekend. Can you come then?" he asked.

"Yes," Derek answered at once. "What's the address?"

"Whoa there, big guy, gettin' a little stalkeris-"

"Just give me the address Stilinski, I promise I won't come until your wife is gone," he interrupted impatiently. Stiles sighed. He had thought he was done getting ordered around by Derek Hale.

Stiles was on alert Saturday morning after returning from the airport. He changed Maggie's diaper and put Thomas in the backyard to play, settling himself at the kitchen table to write a grocery list. He turned on the television, half watching a soccer game and half watching Thomas blow bubbles. He could hear his son's giggles and almost regretted calling Derek. This was not what he wanted for his son. He didn't want him to suffer a life of learning control, of dreading the moon, of fearing for his life. He didn't want the boy to have to make that decision between being a killer or a recluse. And he didn't want Lydia to have to know she was the cause of his suffering.

He was watching Thomas when suddenly, the boy lifted his head and frowned, listening intently. As if on cue, like the action and reaction had switched orders, Stiles heard a car pull up in front of their house. He shook his head miserably and got to his feet. "Stay here okay, kiddo? Daddy's gotta talk to a friend," he told Thomas. Thomas just nodded, going back to his bubbles. He shut the sliding door so just a crack was left open and went to the front door, opening it just as Derek Hale, wearing a v-neck t-shirt, dark jeans, boots and the ever-present leather jacket, walked up his front walk. Derek opened the screen door and the two men hesitated, until Derek put out his hand. Stiles gripped it firmly.

"Stilinski," Derek said.

"Derek, nice to see you," Stiles said, though his eyes narrowed, deciding it was _not_ so nice seeing Derek's nostrils flare as he sniffed visibly. He couldn't think of a valid reason for keeping Derek outside, so he moved back and let the older man in. He was startled to see Derek stop in his tracks, his eyes shutting for a moment as he reeled gently on the spot. His eyes flew open, glowing red for a second. Stiles cringed.

"Who is the other one? Do you have two?" Derek asked immediately.

"A daughter," Stiles said defensively. "She's not even a year old," he added. They heard a grunt and the sliding door, and Stiles turned to see Thomas squirming as he slid through a thin space in the sliding door. His eyes were wide and his face lifted and Stiles could see that Thomas, just like Derek, was scenting the air. Stiles' head whipped back to Derek, observing the alpha as he took in Thomas.

Stiles felt like he'd just been hit in the head with a brick. The expression on Derek's face he'd only seen in pictures, the pictures Lydia had taken when she'd announced she was pregnant with Thomas. It was an expression filled with bafflement, terror, hope, and love. It was an expression that showed what it's like to be told you're about to be responsible for the life of a real human being. Stiles had cried with happiness when Lydia had told him, but he didn't think Derek was about to. Fortunately, Derek's expression softened Stiles to the idea of what was really about to happen to his son. He knew nothing else would have.

Thomas whimpered, and immediately, Stiles turned protective again. But Derek knelt down, still staring at Thomas with a slightly open mouth.

"Come here," Derek murmured. Thomas made a face, then glanced at Stiles, looking pained. Stiles, unsure of what was going on, glanced at Derek, then nodded in approval. At that, Thomas flew towards Derek, into the alpha's outstretched arms, slamming against his chest. Stiles' nails bit into his palms, his pulse pounding in his throat and wrists and chest. Derek's eyes were red, his fangs were visible over his lips, his nose had planed out and hair had sprouted along his cheekbones. The clawed hands holding Thomas were gentle, though, and Thomas had his hands on Derek's cheeks. Selfishly, Stiles was relieved to see no claws on his son's fingers. Their noses were pressed together, but all they seemed to be doing was breathing, breathing each other in.

The jealousy rose in him like bile, and Stiles wasn't sure how he'd be able to share his son. _He_ had raised him from the cradle. _He_ had created him. It was _his_ genes that swam in Thomas' blood, but now Derek's mere presence would overpower all of that?

"What's your name?" Derek croaked. He was human again.

"Thomas Martin Stilinski," he announced. "Who are you?" he asked, sounding bewildered.

"I'm Derek," Derek answered, sounding more, well, _human_ than Stiles had ever heard him. "I'm your alpha." Thomas did not appear to question this terminology.

"I've missed you," he whispered, and Stiles thought he might cry. Derek hugged Thomas tightly. Then he got to his feet with Thomas in his arms and stumbled slightly, as if drunk. Stiles steadied him with a hand on his arm.

"Come, have a seat," Stiles said heavily. If the man was going to be such a big part of Thomas' life, he might as well get used to it. "Tell me what this means."

Derek sat in one of his kitchen chairs, Thomas on his knee. Derek had his nose buried in Thomas' hair, his arms wrapped securely around the boy.

"I don't know," Derek said softly. "This has never happened, to my knowledge. A werewolf child, raised by humans, without contact from his alpha?" he shook his head. "Preposterous."

"Well then tell me what you're going to do about it," Stiles said. Derek met his eyes. He looked so... So _normal_. Like a regular person, not some damaged werewolf with a terrible past. Stiles thought for a moment. "Where's your pack, Derek?" he asked.

"What pack?" Derek asked coldly. Thomas was sucking his thumb in Derek's hold.

"Erica. Boyd. Isaac."

"They left. Ages ago. They left when you did." Derek answered.

"They can do that? They can just leave their alpha?" he asked. Derek shrugged.

"It was going to be temporary. They went to school, they were going to come back, but..." Derek shook his head. "They all got jobs in LA, and they asked me to come out but I..." Stiles realized that Derek didn't look just normal, he looked vulnerable. He looked hurt.

"You couldn't leave Beacon Hills," Stiles offered. "They wanted to lead normal lives but you couldn't. And you couldn't leave your family behind." Derek shook his head.

"And Erica, well, you know her. She turned out to be alpha material, so she took over. After that I was kind of... It put me off giving the bite." He shrugged.

"So you've been living packless?" Stiles asked, curious in spite of himself. "Were you an omega?" Derek all but growled at Stiles, eyes and teeth flashing. Stiles' hip bumped into his counter as he subconsciously backpedaled. "Not an omega. Just an alpha. An alpha without a pack." That was sad.

"Will you move back to Beacon Hills?" Derek asked suddenly, and Stiles was shocked and uncomfortable to hear pleading in his voice.

"We can't," Stiles sighed. "Lydia has work here. We have a life." He paused. "How often do you need to see him?" Stiles asked. Derek just looked at him, as if he didn't understand the question.

"I'll move here," he decided instantly. "Stanford is way better than Los Angeles."

"Listen, Derek, I've got to talk to Lydia about this," he began uneasily.

"Stiles this isn't something you can deny!" Derek barked, and Stiles flinched. "Thomas belongs with me just as much as he belongs with you and Lydia."

"That's not fair!" Stiles shouted, losing control. It wasn't something he did often. "He's my son! It's not our fault that Lydia was bitten by your batshit uncle!" Stiles realized he was trembling, on the verge of tears. This was surreal. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Thomas. Before Derek could reply, a wail cut the air. The werewolf went rigid, nostrils flaring again.

Glad for an excuse, Stiles fled the kitchen and hurried up the stairs. He ran to the nursery and gathered Maggie into his arms, cooing to her and rocking her, but it did no good. Her cries hurt his ears with their intensity, and his efforts failed to soothe her. Maggie was not a cryer, and she'd just eaten. Stiles hoped she wasn't ill- he wasn't sure if he could handle it. But suddenly, Maggie stopped, hiccoughed once, and began jabbering animatedly from his shoulder. Stiles turned. Derek was standing in the doorway, Thomas wrapped around his thick leg. Stiles backed up, holding Maggie closely to him.

"Please Stiles," said Derek, and he realized Maggie was twisting and writhing in his hold. Heart scrunching in his chest, Stiles gently handed his daughter to Derek. She quieted at once, nuzzling once or twice at his chest before latching onto his shirt with one tiny fist and relaxing. She just stared up at Derek with Stiles' brown eyes, waiting, breathing. Derek's eyes closed and he pressed his face to Maggie's, dwarfing the little girl's. She tried to chew on his chin with the few teeth she had at her disposal, and the smile on Derek's face made Stiles want to throw up. Finally, Derek met his eyes.

"Please, Stiles," he repeated. Stiles was discomfited to see real humility in Derek's face, and need, and want, and hope, and so much _loneliness_- "Please share them with me. They're all I've got."

Derek was gone, back to Beacon Hills to get his affairs together as quickly as possible. He said he would be back by Tuesday. He had promised to a sobbing Thomas that he would be back then, if not Monday, and that he would miss him very much. He would start looking for apartments in town, close enough to come every day. He wouldn't interfere with their life, he promised Stiles. He would add to it. He would be Uncle Derek. He would be a guest at Maggie's birthday party. He would babysit anytime Stiles wanted him to.

"_They'll be my life, Stiles, I promise you that. They'll never want for anything." Stiles looks at him skeptically. "You know why?" Derek asks. "Because they're all I have to live for." Stiles is shocked by this nihilism, but for some odd reason, proud of his children. "If anything happens to them, that's it for me. So don't you worry."_

It was all so out of character for Derek. So compassionate, so kind, so caring. This must have been what his family had known him as. They must have raised him like this. Pack before anything else.

The best part was that Derek had promised to talk to Lydia about it, taking it out of Stiles' hands.

Humming an old song, Stiles carried a freshly bathed and dressed Maggie to her crib. She had been less affected by Derek's departure than Thomas, thankfully.

"It's time to go to sleep, so have a pretty dream," Stiles sang to Maggie, who stared up at him, fingers squeezing the air rhythmically. He put her down, slid her blankets over her and stroked her forehead. "Oh baby girl," he sighed as she blinked up at him. "If you only knew what I know."


	3. Sweet Life

**AN: **Most of this was written before the S2 finale so it's like... semi AU I guess. Sorry it's super long.

"Throw it! Come on, Stiles!" Scott yelled with a grin, preparing himself to run by the fence. Stiles gives him a skeptical look.

"You know I can't throw these fucking things," he replied. Scott let out a monster sigh and rolled his eyes.

"Just try. I believe in you, or something," he joked. Stiles scowled.

"Fine!" he announced, and let the frisbee fly from the the lifeguard's stand. It sailed wobbily, and Stiles had to admire the superhuman speed that Scott employed to make a dash for the pool. He lept into the air, grabbed the falling frisbee, and crashed into the surface of the water. Stiles whooped and clapped as Scott surfaced, grinning like- Stiles snorted- like a happy dog that had caught the ball its master threw for him. "Nine out of ten!" Scott laughed, actually _doggy-paddled_ to the rim of the pool, and hoisted himself out. He was throwing the frisbee back to Stiles when he froze, eyes going wide. Stiles saw his wolf ears grow from his head and listen intently, so he knew better than to say anything. Then Scott relaxed.

"It's just Derek," Scott said with a shrug, and threw the frisbee back to Stiles. The frisbee hit Stiles' in the hip, because he was still startled by the news.

"Oof," he muttered, putting a hand to his side. "What's Derek doing here?" he asked as he picked it up, wincing. Scott had thrown it _hard_.

"Looking for Scott, who clearly hasn't remembered to charge his phone again," Derek answered, and Stiles turned, seeing Derek drop from the chain link fence. Scott made a puzzled face (well, when didn't he look mildly confused?) and shook the water from his hair. Stiles snorted.

"What's up?" asked Scott.

"There's an omega in the area," he said bluntly, reaching the poolside. Stiles' eyebrows shot up in curiosity, but Scott just blinked at him.

"Oh." he said. "What are you going to do about it?"

"He left me a note," Derek said, and Stiles was delighted. This was getting more and more interesting. "Said he wants to meet the pack. He comes in peace, but he's doing research on packs across the country." This was _awesome_. Fucking werewolf scientists! Scott just frowned.

"Who is this guy?" Scott asked. Derek gave a rare half-smile.

"He's a biologist from Princeton or something. He got bitten accidentally, and now he can't keep his curiosity in check. He left me his teaching credentials." Jeez, how cool! Stiles had to meet this guy.

"How do you know you can trust him?" Scott wanted to know, clearly confused by being the less trusting of the two just then.

"He's submitted already," Derek answered simply, and to Stiles' fascination, this appeared to appease Scott at once.

"Okay," he replied. "When?"

"An hour. Erica and Isaac are already there, Boyd said he'll be late," he explained. Scott nodded, looking around and Stiles grabbed a towel and held it out to him.

"Sounds good. I'll be there soon," he said.

"Can I come?" Stiles asked. Derek gave him a look that had Stiles cowering in his bare feet.

"He's interested in the pack," Derek said, by way of explanation. "Besides, don't you have to work or something?" he added, gesturing to the pool. Stiles sighed.

Responsibility blew. Scott was pulling on his t-shirt and his socks. "I'll let you know how it goes man," Scott told him, and Stiles nodded.

"Have fun," he said, as Scott bounded out the way he had come in, over the fence.

"Stupid human responsibilities," Stiles muttered. "Stupid summer job..." Stiles' father had given him an ultimatum the summer before, when Stiles had spent the whole three months of his freedom gamboling about with werewolves and playing videogames until three in the morning: get a job next summer or get sent to Granny Stilinski in Utah. Now Stiles loved his Granny Stilinski, but a whole fucking summer in _Utah?_ And this was the summer of his life, his last before he left for college. No way was he going to mow Granny Stilinski's lawn and feed her three corgis premium dog food every morning. So his dad had tipped him off that they were building a new country club just outside Beacon Hills and would be looking for employees the next summer. Stiles took a lifeguarding class at school- and who knew you could do that?- and got certified and here he was! Except that summer hadn't even started yet- it was still the end of April- so no one ever _came_ to the pool. Except Scott, who came a lot of nights that Stiles was on duty, as soon as Stiles texted him that the coast was clear, because it was the second semester of senior year and who took that shit seriously?

But Stiles had to admit, getting paid was _awesome_. He climbed back into his seat on the lifeguard stand, stretched out, and grabbed _A Feast for Crows_, opening to the page where he'd folded the corner page down.

"Sansa you conniving bitch," he muttered, shaking his head.

The next time Derek showed up at the pool, Scott wasn't there. Stiles looked up from his book when he heard the rattling of the fence, glanced around to make sure there were no members present (which he already knew there weren't) and then squinted to try to see who it was.

"Scott?" he asked. He had thought Scott was with Allison.

"No," replied a deeper voice, and Stiles frowned, putting down his book and climbing down from the platform.

"Derek?"

"Scott said you got into Northwestern," Derek said, plopping himself down on a reclining deck chair, if a verb so undignified could be used for someone so lithe and balanced. Stiles made a face.

"Nice to hear Scott sharing my news," he murmured, and sat on the grass in front of Derek. But he couldn't really be grumpy about it. He'd gotten into his dream school! Somewhere far away, with real winters, in its own little town but near a big city, with no werewolves... It _was_ a dream. He smiled. "Did you come to congratulate me?" he preened. Derek snorted and punctured Stiles' confidence.

"Where else did you get in?" Derek asked him.

"Why?" Stiles wanted to know, suspicious.

"Where else did you get in?" Derek repeated.

"I said 'why', not 'what', I'd've thought your superhuman hearing could-"

"I know what you said. Answer the question."

Stiles huffed. "UCLA, USC, Washington State. Why?" he asked again.

"Where are you going to go?" Derek asked, again ignoring the question. Stiles scowled.

"Well I've got to talk to my dad about money," he began uneasily, "But I'm pretty set on Northwestern."

Derek was silent for a moment. "Why not UCLA?" he asked. "It's close." At that, Stiles' eyes widened. It wasn't _really_ an answer to his 'why', but it was getting there.

"I mean, it's a good school but it's..." Stiles shrugged. "I'm sort of... I'm over California." He looked away from Derek, baffled as to why they were having this conversation. Why would Derek of all people care that he was going far away? "I want to... See the world." Derek gave him a look.

"Chicago isn't the world," he replied matter-of-factly.

"It's Evanston, actually," Stiles corrected automatically. Derek scowled.

"Why suffer the wind and the cold and Lake Whichever-It-Is when you could go to LA and go to the beach?" Derek wanted to know. Stiles frowned.

"Derek, what are we talking about?" he said. Derek looked away from him, and Stiles squinted at the werewolf in confusion. "Be straight here, I'm not one of your mind-reading betas," he reminded him. Derek let out a snort that Stiles didn't understand.

"Stiles, you can't..." He began, and stopped.

"Can't what?" Stiles prompted, immediately on edge. Naturally, Stiles did not like being told what he could and could not do.

"You're... You're part..." He didn't seem to be able to finish. "Have you asked Scott yet why he's going to Beacon County Community College?" Derek asked instead. This was getting ridiculous.

"I don't need to. Allison is going to Scripps, which is only like two hours away, and it's not like Scott had the marks to get into any of the other Claremont schools," Stiles pointed out. It was true- Scott's grades were never very good. But it wasn't like he couldn't go to vet school from community college, so he didn't mind. Derek sighed. Stiles was clearly missing something.

"And Erica, and Isaac, and Boyd?" Stiles frowned.

"I haven't talked to them for a while. Where did they get in?" he asked.

"Isaac is going to UC Santa Barbara." Derek said.

"And Erica?"

"Woodbury University. It's south of here. And Boyd is going to Harvey Mudd."

"Boyd got into Harvey Mudd?" Stiles asked, impressed. Derek nodded. "Wait, hold on though." He paused for emphasis. "Remind me why any of this matters to me?"

"They're all schools within a two hour drive of here." Derek said, as if it were obvious. Stiles blinked.

"Okay, so they're staying all close and cute and pack-y. What's that got to do with me?" he probed. Derek gave him a look.

"Because you're pack," he said, still with the 'duh' tone. Stiles barked out a laugh.

"That's not what you said when the omega came through," he retorted bitterly, and Derek colored slightly.

"Look, that was-" Derek paused, and Stiles knew from watching Scott that he was listening intently. Then he heard it, flip-flops flapping against pavement. When Stiles looked back at Derek, there was no one there, and only the faint rustling of the fence alerted him to Derek's speedy (understatement of the year) exit from the pool area. Stiles jumped to his feet and smiled at the elderly couple tottering down the pavement towards the pool.

"Hiya folks," he said cheerfully. "Welcome to Beacon Country Club. Let me know if I can get you anything."

In June, Scott had stopped his evening visits to the pool, because suddenly there were loads of people there every afternoon. All the schools had gotten out, so parents had to take their kids somewhere. But something even better had happened: Stiles had been given the key to lock up by his supervisor, who liked to check out at about 8:30 (a half hour before the pool closed) and go smoke weed. Which meant that Stiles could stay at the pool as long as he liked. And get his friends in. So instead of coming while the sun was still up, Scott came well after dark, when Stiles turned the bright lights on, and brought Allison, who usually brought Lydia, who usually brought Jackson, who usually brought Danny; Isaac, Erica and Boyd also came sometimes. Occasionally Jackson, jealous of Stiles' new-found popularity from having access the pool, complained that he, too, had a pool in his home. But he didn't have a waterslide or a super bouncy diving board, so he was usually easily trumped.

After his episode as the kanima, and after Lydia had saved him, Jackson had decided against trying to become a werewolf. He had attempted to remain aloof, but Scott, Stiles, Erica, Isaac and Allison had all gotten sick of him and shouted him down, reminding him that he pretty much owed them his life. His normal arrogance when combined with forced humility usually rendered him slightly awkward, which was weird for Jackson Whittemore. Danny was really the best of any of them at getting Jackson to relax. Jackson had broken down and spilled everything to his best friend, which had terrified them at first until they realized that _hello_, this was Danny, and he wouldn't do anything to hurt anyone else ever, so they welcomed him into the group. It was clear that Erica made him a little nervous, but to be fair, Erica made a lot of people nervous.

On the tail end of an incredibly hot Friday afternoon, Stiles, Scott, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson (Danny had a family dinner) were playing volleyball with a beach ball Stiles had swiped from the toy shed in the pool. Allison and Lydia were creaming him, Scott and Jackson, no matter how many angry outbursts Jackson had.

"Jeez Jackson, just because you _were_ captain of a _high school_ lacrosse team doesn't make you captain of everything," Stiles pointed out. He had discovered that the end of high school had meant the end of the ridiculous and unfounded social hierarchy that Jackson had been subjecting him to for the last three years. Jackson scowled. "If we're going to pick captains based on talent, I'd pick Scott," he added, grinning.

"Well that's because Scott's a freak," Jackson muttered. Scott took this good-naturedly.

"Well I think you all should be ashamed that a team with no werewolves _and_ short a player _and _only made up of girls is beating your butts," Lydia said with a satisfied smile.

"You say 'girls' like it's a bad thing," Stiles replied, and Lydia turned a surprised smile on him, making his heart explode confetti blasters, and Jackson pinched him on the side under the water, making him yelp. Lydia's look of appreciation turned to confusion as Stiles flushed darkly.

"Just serve it, Allison," sighed Jackson, shoving the multi-colored ball back under the net at her. Allison grabbed it and backed up, readying her serve. Lydia had french braided her hair down her back and she wore a black halter top one piece bathing suit, that day's eyeliner smeared dangerously about her eyes. She looked like some kind of Amazon princess.

"Six serving four!" she called, and smacked the ball over the net. Stiles and Jackson didn't react, as the ball headed right to Scott, but all of a sudden, Scott's head whipped around. He put up a hand to hit the ball, but only knocked it onto the pavement out of the pool. Stiles just stared at his best friend.

"What the fuck, McCall?" Jackson asked as Lydia and Allison high fived. Scott frowned.

"D... Derek's coming." A second later, the fence rattled. Scott swam to the edge of the pool and hoisted himself out. The four humans waited, not totally unused to this kind of thing.

"What's up?" Scott asked as Derek trotted into the light bathing the pool area. He blinked, seeing Jackson, Allison and Lydia (Scott had previously told Stiles that humans didn't smell half as strongly as other werewolves did, and chlorine really tended to dampen their scent.)

"Nothing," said Derek, and he sat down on one of the deck chairs. Scott stared at him, and Stiles shared a glance with Allison. Then Stiles squinted at the alpha werewolf. Was he wearing- _oh my god he is!_ Stiles had never seen Derek in anything less than jeans and boots, but there he was, not twenty feet away, in grey shorts and navy canvas sneakers, as well as a v-neck t-shirt.

"Nothing?" Scott repeated dubiously.

"What, does someone have to be dying or invading the territory for me to come?" he asked waspishly. Stiles snorted. "I heard that Stilinski," he added, and Stiles pretended to be looking the other direction.

"So... nothing's wrong?" Scott said again. Allison rolled her eyes. Derek just scowled at him.

"So you can come play for our team," said Lydia, wading towards the pool side to smile up at Derek. Both Jackson and Stiles scowled. "We're outnumbered. And human." Derek actually smirked, and Stiles frowned. Lydia and Derek had a strange relationship. She remembered almost nothing of her time as Peter Hale's conduit to the living. And Derek... Well, Derek appeared, at least to Stiles' probing and untrained eye, to feel somewhat guilty for her unwanted participation in the world of the supernatural. So he was unusually nice to her, though tended to keep his distance.

"That's not fair," Jackson protested. "What if he just makes Scott lose because he's his alpha?"

"Hey, it's not like I have _no_ free will," Scott objected.

"You say that like I need that to win," Derek said at the same time, and Stiles was all kinds of frowns because this was wrong and Derek was standing up and taking off his shirt and his blood boiled as Lydia let out a kind of muffled little gasp at the sight of his bare chest (_sound carries over water, Lydia, you should know that_).

"We're winning anyway," Lydia reminded everyone who had forgotten (which was no one). Still looking confused, Scott slipped back into the pool, looking over his shoulder at Derek every few seconds. Stiles and Jackson grumbled to themselves as Derek pulled off his shorts too and slipped into the pool in nothing but boxers (_they're called swim trunks Derek, no need to be a slut about it_).

"That last point totally didn't count, Scott got distracted," Jackson said as he tossed the ball over the net to Allison. Allison and Lydia both scoffed.

"As if! You're such a sore loser, Jackson," Lydia hmphed, folding her arms under her breasts and Stiles had to look away and think of Granny Stilinski. Although Stiles was ecstatic about having an excuse to see Lydia almost daily, her constant presence in skimpy bikinis (tonight she was wearing his favorite, a yellow bandeau with white stripes and a white bottom with a knot on each hip) was doing nothing for the unresolved sexual tension brewing within him.

"But we'll give it to you," said Allison, and winked at Lydia's affronted look, "Since we don't need the extra point." Lydia grinned at that. Stiles sighed. He had thought he had escaped emasculation when his final season of lacrosse had ended, but apparently not.

Later, Scott and Allison had disappeared through the wooded area on the edge of the country club to the street where Allison parked her car. Lydia was waiting impatiently for Jackson.

"Good lord, Jackson, you take longer than I do!" she scolded, and Jackson glared at her as he pulled on a lightweight jacket. He had dressed in jeans and a polo, while Lydia had artfully tied some sort of fancy sarong thingy on and slipped her feet into wedge heels (how she was going to slip through the woods to get to her car in them, Stiles had no idea, but she did it on the regular.) Stiles was left to turn off the lights, trudge out the front door, and drive home alone in his Jeep.

Derek, apparently, had other ideas. When Jackson had boosted Lydia up to the top of the fence, thrown himself over, then caught her on the way down, Stiles turned to shut off the lights, pulling out his cell phone for light.

"So you've decided on Northwestern?" he asked gruffly.

"Ah!" Stiles exclaimed, whipping around. He hadn't remembered Derek, who was pulling on his sneakers and shaking out his hair. "Er, yeah. Ages ago, really," he corrected, hitting the switch for the pool area lights. He knew Derek didn't need them to see. Stiles slung his bag over his shoulder.

"There's no convincing you to stay closer?" he asked, and at this, in the darkness of the night, in the emptiness of the club, Stiles turned and stared, dumbfounded, at the alpha.

"To... Oh, are you going on again about this pack stuff?" Stiles scoffed. Secretly, he was pleased. _Very_ pleased. That Derek actually felt like he contributed to the group, that his Adderall fueled factoids and research binges were useful. But he had no intention of letting Derek know that. Finally acknowledging Stiles' usefulness after a solid two years of all but ignoring him and shunting him to the side for safety did not make him any more inclined to choose UCLA over Northwestern.

"Yes, I am," said Derek, and his voice sounded almost dangerous, daring Stiles to argue with him. But this was the whole point- Stiles wasn't pack. Stiles wasn't a werewolf. That voice didn't work on him like it worked on Isaac and Erica and Boyd.

"Well you can save your breath, because I've got other stuff to do than spend the rest of my life babysitting a pack of overgrown puppies," Stiles grumbled, and turned on his heel, making for the exit. Suddenly though, Derek grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around again, curling a fist into the red lifeguard pinnie he wore.

"You say that like this family doesn't mean anything to you," Derek growled, and Stiles raised his brows at Derek's word choice.

"What's it supposed to mean to me?" Stiles retorted. "Look, you guys are great except when you get all fangy and clawy and scary, but you of all people should remember I'm not involved in your spooky supernatural bond or whatever." Derek let out a growl of frustration that raised goosebumps on Stiles' shoulders. He wished they could move into the light, so he could gage Derek's face (and whether he was going to cross the line in making him angry.)

"Don't you ever wonder why I put up with Allison?" Derek asked, and Stiles wondered who ever taught Derek that he could answer questions with other questions because it was _so_ not useful _or_ amusing. It was downright annoying, actually.

"I wonder about lots of things, but everything you do is an enigma so I don't worry my pretty little head about it too much," Stiles answered sarcastically.

"I put up with Allison," Derek continued, as if Stiles hadn't said anything, "because she means everything to Scott. If Scott loses her, he would be weaker. Distracted. Unable to give his all to the pack because of what's left with her."

"And this has all of what to do with me?"

"Don't you realize, Stiles? _This pack would be weaker without you_."

Stiles just stared at Derek, his mouth slightly open, curved bow lips parted in confusion.

"Scott is... Scott's just one member though," Stiles protested. "He'll find other best friends."

"It's not just Scott, Stiles," Derek informed him, and Stiles' eyes narrowed.

"If you're trying to tell me that Boyd will miss me, I'm going to laugh myself unconscious."

"Has anyone ever told you how frustrating you are?"

"Only the entire teaching staff of Beacon Hills High School, why?" Stiles replied. Derek let out another growl/groan and released Stiles' pinnie.

"This isn't over yet," he informed the human, poking him in the chest. Stiles scowled.

"Whatever, boss," Stiles grumbled, as Derek bounded away from the pool. In the darkness, he couldn't see Derek clear the fence in the dark, but he heard it rattle. Shaking his head at meddling werewolves, Stiles turned again and made for the exit.

"Who's car is that?" Sheriff Stilinski wondered, peeking over the top of his Sunday newspaper and squinting out the kitchen window. Stiles turned his face up from his Lucky Charms, and a few hearts, stars and horseshoes dropped unattractively from his mouth as he saw the Camaro pull into their front yard.

"Probably lost," Stiles blurted out, and leapt from his seat. His spoon clattered to the table. "I'll uh, help them find their way." Sheriff Stilinski frowned as his son dashed from the table and the screen door slammed behind him. He shrugged and went back to the comics, taking a sip of his coffee. He had learned long ago not to question his son's strange activities.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stiles hissed as Derek's window went down, revealing a very unsour looking sour wolf in a -_was that a tank top good lord who did he think he was fooling?_- and Ray-Ban aviators and a big sparkling grin. "Do you have a death wish?"

"I am a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Beacon Hills, thanks," Derek answered casually, and Stiles found his lack of grouchiness unsettling to say the least.

"That's pushing it," Stiles grumbled. "You have killed more than one person."

"Yeah, but they've all come back to life, so no harm no foul right?" Derek shrugged. Stiles scowled. "Have you ever been to LA?" Derek asked.

"Don't change the subject," Stiles ordered.

"Have you?"

"No," Stiles said slowly. "Why?"

"Get in," Derek said, jerking his head towards the passenger seat. Stiles' gaped.

"Excuse you?"

"Get in. We're taking a day trip." Derek explained. Like that was a fucking explanation.

"And why on earth are you, Derek Hale, werewolf, and I, Stiles Stilinski, human, taking a day trip to the City of Angels, if I may inquire?" Derek smiled again, putting Stiles off his guard.

"To show you the sweet life," Derek answered simply. "Are you getting in? You're dad's getting up from the table to check what's going on," he added. Stiles winced.

"Go down to the end of the driveway. I'll meet you ten minutes." Anything to get Derek out of sight of his father. Derek kept his eyes on Stiles for a moment, as if gaging the likelihood of Stiles actually meeting him, then made a large U-turn and headed down the long driveway. Stiles headed back into the house, and caught his dad pretending to sit down like he hadn't even gotten up.

"Totally wrong side of town," Stiles said loudly. He was about to sit down to his cereal when he realized the very thought of sugary marshmallow puffs made him want to puke. He casually grabbed the bowl and dumped the contents into the sink, putting the bowl in the dishwasher.

"So what's on the table for today?" Asked the sheriff as Stiles tried to slip out of the kitchen.

"Uh... Scott said something... About... Something," he muttered. Sheriff Stilinski raised an unimpressed brow.

"You and Scott still working on specificity?" he asked, going back to his paper.

"I'll pretend you didn't say that dad," said Stiles, and marched out of the kitchen. Then he bolted up the stairs, trying to figure out why he was so nervous, and changed into a scarlet and brown striped t-shirt and navy cotton shorts. He shoved his feet into his white Adidas, grabbed a pair of sunglasses, and slipped his phone and wallet into his pockets. He paused, taking a deep breath at his door.

"You know, just going to LA for the day, unplanned, with my best friend's alpha. A day in the life. God damn," he muttered as he turned off the lights and ran down the stairs. "If Snookie's got her own show on MTV, why haven't I?" he complained as he headed for the front door. His life was ridiculous enough. "Going hiking with Scott!" he lied as he ran outside.

Sheriff Stilinski shook his head as he finished his coffee. "That kid must be allergic to the truth," he grumbled, getting up to refill his mug.

"You're not actually taking me to LA so you can dump my body where no one will recognize me, are you?" Stiles asked after an uncomfortable fifteen minutes in the absurdly comfortable Camaro. Even the new, fun, 'let's do ridiculously uncalled for things' Derek couldn't just erase his normal awkwardness.

"As a cop's son, you should know that wouldn't work," Derek answered as he eased onto the highway. "You know your dad'll have a missing person's notice out on you if you're not home by midnight." Stiles scowled.

"So if you're not going to murder me, why on earth are we going?" Stiles asked. Derek looked at him, and Stiles couldn't help but meet his eyes, trying to be brave. But then he realized Derek was blasting down the interstate at 80 miles an hour and not watching the road. "Look out!" he squeaked as a white SUV began merging in front of them. Without even looking away from Stiles, Derek eased up on the gas, perfectly in tune with the car in front of them when he hit accelerated again. Stiles huffed. "Show off. Answer the question!"

"You still don't get it, do you?" Derek asked in disbelief, finally returning his eyes to the road.

"Well I wouldn't be asking you if I did, eh smartass?" he retorted, and Derek actually _grinned_, shaking his head. _Oh my god I'm in a car on the highway with a fucking psychopath_.

"You _are_ slow sometimes," Derek remarked.

"Sorry if I let up on the Adderall when I'm not in school," Stiles grumbled, affronted. "You still haven't answered me!"

"And I'm not going to." He decided. Stiles' gaped. Not answer a question? Not satisfy his curiosity?

"But you..." No one had ever straight up refused to answer him before. "Yes you are! Or I'll... I'll..."

"Get out of the car? Hitchhike home?" Derek asked.

"I could call Scott. He would come get me."

"Scott's in on it," Derek informed him breezily. Treachery!

"What does that even mean?"

"It means Scott wants you to go to UCLA too." This gave Stiles pause. Scott and Stiles had never really discussed college: Scott had been plenty happy for him when he'd gotten into Northwestern, had pondered about how cool Chicago would be. What really stopped him, though, was Derek's use of the word _too_. The hints that Derek had dropped had been about Stiles' departure hurting _Scott_. So who else wanted him to stay close? Stiles' brow creased.

"What do you mean, too?" he asked.

"I mean the pack. The pack and Scott," Derek answered, shrugging.

"Why would Isaac care if I went to Chicago?" Stiles challenged.

"Because Isaac and Scott are pack. Because Isaac cares about Scott," said Derek. "And because you're pack. So Isaac cares about _you_." Stiles snorted.

"Look, Isaac and I are friends, but I doubt he'd die without me," Stiles pointed out. At this Derek gave him a glare that made him shift uncomfortably towards the door. "So why aren't you going to tell me why you're doing this?"

"You seem to be guessing all right," Derek replied.

"But you're not telling me everything," Stiles insisted. "You're holding something back." Derek shook his head.

"If you can't figure it out by the end of the day, I'll tell you when I drop you off at your house," Derek said.

"Is that a promise?"

"I swear."

"Pinky swear?" Stiles pressed.

"I'm driving," said Derek, and Stiles scowled at him.

"Whatever. I'm still considering this a kidnapping until you tell me what this is about," he informed the older man, crossing his arms and sinking into his seat so he could watch California fly by through his window. Derek barked out a laugh and turned on the radio.

Derek took Stiles to the UCLA campus, got them 'prospective student' passes (with Derek claiming he was Stiles' older brother, earning them a funny look from the girl behind the desk.) Arriving around lunchtime, Derek talked them into one of the cafeterias and they both agreed that the food wasn't worth mentioning. Or eating. Stiles managed to burn up what was left of Derek's patience after the hour and a half long car ride, but the werewolf was calmed after a decent steak lunch (off campus, of course.) They returned and walked the campus north to south, peeked into the quad, snuck into a library, and spied on a summer chemistry course through the huge windows of a ground floor laboratory in one of the science buildings. They got back into Derek's car and tried and drove around the city, flying up through the Hollywood hills in the Camaro, cruising through Beverly Hills, looking at the domestic paradise and the palm-tree lined roads. As the evening turned cold, Derek turned them towards Santa Monica and the beach.

They pulled into a public parking lot, empty at the end of the day. Stiles stretched his arms to the sky as he stepped out of the car, tapping the door closed with his foot and ignoring Derek's scowl. Derek locked the car and the pair of them made for the dirt track that led towards the dunes.

"A day of hijinks and hilarity with Derek Hale," Stiles mused. "Who'da thought? And who's gonna believe me?" he snorted as the dirt turned soft beneath his feet, and he bent down to untie his shoes and pull off his socks. He noticed that Derek looked terribly at home in his striped sleeveless top and shorts, like an LA bro (and there were a lot of them.)

"Don't push it," Derek muttered as he too removed his shoes. "You sing anymore in the car and you won't make it home to brag about it." He had just sat through twenty minutes of Stiles' incredible luck finding Call Me Maybe on maybe all of the radio stations in the LA area. Stiles grinned.

"You liked it," he scoffed as he scrambled up a dune and paused, staring out over the water and shading his eyes to the vibrantly setting sun. Derek joined him in a more dignified manner. "What a romantic way to end a day," Stiles sighed exaggeratedly, beaming up at Derek, who shoved him down the hill, and trotted down after him. They stared at the water together, a few feet apart. "It's so... It's so blue it's surreal," Stiles murmured, as the sun lit up patches of the calm water. Man, maybe there was something to LA. Why see the world when you had the beach? Stiles' toes sifted in the sand. Well, the beach wasn't everything.

Stiles turned to Derek. "You're not going to buy me ice cream or something?" Stiles asked plaintively.

"Will you go to UCLA if I do?" Derek asked. Stiles laughed, and Derek, apparently surprised, frowned.

"Look, Derek, I had fun, but one day isn't going to change anything," he informed him. "First of all, I've already sent in my deposit. And second, I've... I've dreamed about getting out of here for so long. Whenever I think about the opportunities that I can have in a new city, I just like... God, I nearly pissed myself when I got into Northwestern." Stiles paused and looked at Derek. "LA is great I guess but..." He shrugged, gesturing around to the few people left on the beach, the sinking sun, the sand. "Maybe it's time to-"

"You talk about Chicago like it can offer you things LA can't," Derek said. "Like whatever you want to study won't be available here, like you can't get internships or jobs in only the biggest city on the West Coast." Stiles looked down.

"It's not... Necessarily..." He didn't know how to say it. He hadn't really admitted it to himself either. "About academics." Derek's eyes narrowed. "Maybe." He cringed.

"So that's what this is about. It's not about you going somewhere. It's about you _leaving _Beacon Hills." Stiles turned towards towards the water, thrusting his hands in his pockets and taking a few steps away from Derek, whose shoulders tensed visibly. "Hey, don't walk away from me Stilinski!" he demanded, suddenly angry, and Stiles turned back to him, meeting his eyes uncomfortably. "What, so we're not good enough for you anymore?" he wanted to know.

It was so ridiculous that Stiles laughed, and Derek fumed. "What the hell does that even mean? 'Good enough'? You talk like I'm auditioning other werewolf packs as we speak, trying to find the right one for me. That's ridiculous, Derek. Of course you guys are good enough." He shook his head.

"So why do you need to leave us?"

"You're making this sound like a break up!" Stiles exclaimed, bewildered.

"Isn't it?" Derek asked darkly, taking a few steps closer to Stiles. Stiles' eyes widened. The gap was starting to close in Stiles' understanding. "You're leaving this family, and you're part of it. You are intentionally, with no regard to those who care about you, going away to find something... Something _better_."

But if Derek wasn't going to admit what he needed to admit, Stiles was going to keep pretending like he didn't know. And anyway, Stiles was so over this double standard, of him being pack or human depending on what suited the clearly bipolar alpha. "Stop pretending I'm one of you!" he said angrily, jabbing his finger into Derek's chest. Derek's eyes widened. "I'm human, Derek, you of all people should remember that! You can't decide when you want me to be pack and when you don't. I can't be just a human extra when you don't want me to get hurt and one of your fucking little family members when you want to keep me from the best thing that might ever happen to me!" Derek's mouth opened in shock.

"To- to keep you!" he sputtered.

"Yeah!" Stiles said. "Is it too much for one poor little human to want to live _normally_ for a couple years? Is it so wrong that I want to spend what's supposed to be the best four years of my life like an average person, instead of fighting for my life every couple of months?"

Stiles was breathing hard, and his throat ached like he was about to cry. He supposed he hadn't thought about it too hard, but really, these _were_ his motives for leaving. After all, UCLA was a great school. So if he wanted to live the rest of his life in some sort of supernatural pseudo-universe, he totally could. But he didn't. He wanted to go to college, take classes, go to parties, make out with girls, and... And see the world. This life Scott and Derek had dragged him into... Well he wasn't nailed to it, like they were. He could still get out.

And why shouldn't he?

Derek backed off. "If that's how you feel." He said, voice calm. Then he turned around and headed over the dune towards where the car was. Stiles watched him with iron birds nesting in his stomach, glanced at the ocean, then followed Derek, away from the sun. He climbed over the dune, brushed off his feet and shoved them back into his shoes. Derek was in the car, the headlights on, motor running. Stiles crept into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt, and without a word, Derek pulled out of the lot.

It was the most awkward two hours Stiles had ever sat through.

Derek stopped the car at the foot of Stiles' long driveway, but Stiles didn't get out. "Look, Derek, I..."

"It's fine, Stilinski. You made your choice." Derek was staring out his window, even though there was nothing to see in the darkness.

"You never told me why you did this." Stiles said. He had an idea already, but he wanted Derek to say it. Because maybe that was what Stiles needed to hear.

"Doesn't fucking matter. Get out of the car. I won't bother you with my pack shit anymore." Stiles was terrified to hear pain in his voice, so he did the only thing he could and bolted from the car.

"So you're off tomorrow?"

"Sweet mother of all things holy good lord you scared the living _cripes_ out of me!" Stiles gasped, a hand clutched to his pounding chest. Stiles turned to see Derek seated on his windowsill, in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. "Can't you knock or something?" he asked uselessly. Derek shrugged, eyes examining the bare room. Melissa McCall had come to assist with the moveout process, when Stiles had admitted a certain uneasiness about tackling the whole thing with just his dad. And the sheriff had been extremely relieved for the help. Mrs. McCall had made Stiles clean out his whole room, something that hadn't been done in _ages_, and he was just now pushing his furniture back into each rightful spot. Two big suitcases lay on the floor, with three cardboard boxes taped up on top of them. "Yeah," Stiles finally said, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's like a three day trip, but we're stopping at my grandmother's for a couple nights."

Stiles wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure what Derek wanted to hear. He hadn't talked to Derek in ages. He hadn't even seen him in the two months since their trip to LA. Derek had stayed conspicuously out of Stiles' way, never returning to the pool, even when Erica and Isaac tried to invite him. Stiles had later discovered that the entire pack had been in on the 'win Stiles over to California' plan, which he privately found _immensely_ flattering. But flattery wasn't what he needed. He needed normalcy. He needed the world, not the beach. He had tried to bring it up once or twice with the werewolves, but they had all changed the subject at once. Maybe it was a sore spot?

"Well good luck, I suppose," said Derek, already looking uncomfortable.

"Derek, tell me why you took me to LA," he pleaded. Derek turned hazel eyes on Stiles, who flinched under their intense scrutiny. He suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to hear it.

"You don't know? You haven't figured it out?" Derek asked. Stiles looked away. "I can hear your heart, Stiles. Don't play me." Derek stood and turned in the small space until he was crouched on the sill, facing outside. He glanced back over his shoulder at Stiles. "And you don't need to tell anyone about it. It can be our little secret."

Stiles nodded.

"Hope you find what you're looking for," Derek added, and leapt from the window.

Stiles heard leaves crunch, then nothing. He turned back to his dresser and put his shoulder against it, shoving it back into the wall.


End file.
